


survive the summer

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent, Loss of Virginity, Praise Kink, mentions of Arranged Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: “dubcon with thor with praise kink and the reader’s first time”
Relationships: Thor (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

It’s warm. Not hot, not cold; there’s not even a breeze that would send the occasional goosebumps up your skin. As you grip the firm apple in your hands you don’t break a sweat because you don’t need to.

The lack of sweltering heat is welcome, the claws of summer have dug themselves into the earth and as time passes, they seem to retract less and less. Some days they clutch so tightly you feel you can’t breathe – wishing to be confined to your bedroom as your eyelids feel heavier with each blink; panting slow like a dog after an exhaustive hunt, body inert and desperate to shove your entire body in the icebox that hasn’t worked since you were born.

But none of that is necessary today – today you enjoy the comforting warmth and the cool shade and the sweet aloneness that comes with your family visiting your cousins 200 miles away. You were left, as the oldest daughter is, to tend to the farm and do as you pleased (though, your family never learned about that last part). Today is the first full day they are gone, and with the sun high in the sky you bite into the most delicious apple you’ve ever tasted – the isolation only making it sweeter. The juice drips down from your chin to your apron and the dirt below. You watch the drops of liquid, watch the bunnies run across the grass to your left and the ducks in the pond to your right. This spot – this blessed spot – has been your haven for years. It’s hidden from the house and the barn and the field but gives you a wonderful view – along with some shade.

So, it’s no wonder you don’t notice the stranger right in front you as you peel at another section of the apple with your pocket knife. When he clears his throat, the knife slips and nearly takes the tip of your finger off.

You squeal, dropping the sharp object and your treat onto the dirt below.

The stranger laughs deep in his chest. You glare up at him. “That was very rude of you,” you pout. As he laughs more, you see a horse with large saddlebags at the edge of your property. _How did he walk all the way over here without your noticing?_

“Hm,” is all he says in return. “I’m Thor. Odinson.”

You don’t speak – choosing to let the myriad of farm noises fill the silence. It’s then that Thor chuckles, the kind that makes you feel uneasy.

“Didn’t your mother teach your manners, girl?” Thor asks. His tone is playful, almost, but you still shoot up from your spot on the ground for fear of disappointing your parents – who spent years training you to be a proper lady fit for a proper husband. Your movements are mechanic as you lead him inside break him a bit of bread you’d baked that morning and pour him the rest of the hard black coffee that was left over from last night.

Thor is this big, hulking thing that – no matter where you look – catches your periphery.

“Your family coming him soon?” he inquires around a bite almost as massive as he is. He likes the bread, you can tell, and it both terrifies and excites you. You can’t tell which instinct is more powerful – the one screaming at you to flee for your life, or the one coaxing you to your knees in order to beg him to be the suitor your parents had been praying for since you first woke up in that dreaded pool of blood.

Somehow the proverbial wound made you a woman, but as you stare at the brick house of the man in front of you, you still feel like a child.

It’s then that you remember you have some smoked pork left, hidden away under thick layers of cloth to protect it from dust. _Maybe that will appease him_ , you think. _Maybe that will show him your remorse._

After it is placed in front of him on the nicest, whitest plate your family owns, Thor bites into the meat before speaking once more, taking off large hunks like vultures gnaw at horse carcasses.

“Are you unspoken for?” he asks, plain and apathetic. It’s as if he’s talking about crops or your pigs or some business deal.

“N-no,” you tell him, honestly. “My family has not found a man willing to take me on.”

Thor snorts before swallowing. “And what does that mean?”

For some reason, one you do not understand, you continue to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. “Pa says I’m a tough woman – more feral than anything else. I’m bad at being domestic.”

“You made this bread, didn’t you?” he takes a sip from the mug your mother made when she was young that has somehow withstood all her rambunctious children. “This coffee?”

Now it’s your turn to snort. “Do you know what goes into making bread? Do you know why the coffee is that stout?”

Thor just rolls his eyes. “Honey, you got no idea what men want in women, do you?”

“Whatever it is,” you say with a sigh. “It sure ain’t me.”

It’s then Thor’s standing up and grabbing at you, nipping at the shell of your left year from behind. _“Where’s your bedroom?”_ he rumbles, words barely to be heard over the thud of your heartbeat.

You swallow what little spit is left in your dry mouth. “Down the hall, to the left,” you tell him – voice small and quiet as a mouse. He pushes you down said pathway, saying nothing while keeping you pressed tightly to him. Anyone witnessing such event would call it a kidnapping – their eyes would follow Thor nearly breaking the door down and kicking your field shoes and throwing you onto the bed like you were a bale of hay and scream _FIRE!_ in hopes the man would leave you alone. Maybe you’d yell that, too, if you weren’t so entranced by the way his jewel-toned eyes looked at you as if you were wearing no clothing at all.

As Thor looms over you once again, your heart beats like a wild horse’s hooves against prairie ground. _You shouldn’t be doing this._

Your blood rushes to your ears as he tears at your bodice and casts the rough fabric aside, nearly drowning out Thor’s rumbling voice. “Such beautiful tits,” he purrs before mouthing over your nipples and grabbing at them with rough hands.

_You shouldn’t be doing this. Your future husband, the man who you’ve vowed yourself to since the day you understand you were a commodity. Maybe you didn’t like it, maybe you wanted to run barefoot through the prairie with reckless abandon. But whether you find yourself wishing for a wedding like your sisters do, you **should** be pushing him away. _

_Still, you don’t. You make no move to force him from you, not even a squeak._

Thor sucks deep purple bruises onto your breasts, between them, under them – you’re sure your chest will hurt like Hell in the morning, but for now all you can do is grab at his hair and press him closer to you.

“Oh, _God,”_ you gasp when he moves from the first nipple to the next, one of his hands pulling your dress further down your body.

Thor just smirks. “I don’t think He hears you, darlin’.”

Something hard, something _rough_ enters you the same time he bites another bruise onto your soft skin. _His fingers,_ you realize when a second joins the first inside of you.

“So wet,” Thor moans between your breasts. “So fucking wet for me and me alone.”

He crooks his fingers and you’re seeing stars with your mouth hanging open and eyes scrunched shut and suddenly everything is _white_ and you think you’re crying.

Thor’s just smiling, you can tell without opening your eyes, smiling wide with his teeth and that’s when you realize what happened – and what he’s about to do.

“I think you’re ready for me,” his words are full of bliss. You can hear his trousers drop and your dress _finally_ hit the floor and the room is spinning and you’ve never felt this marvelous in your entire life.

“Fuck you feel so good, _fuuck,”_ Thor hisses as he sinks into you. You say nothing in response, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt swallows each inch of him. It’s mind-numbing, to say the least, the world melting around you so that he and you are the only two people left on Earth. You’re gasping for air, desperate for it, as your head hangs off the side of the bed. The only thing that matters is Thor’s large hand on the back of your neck, his low voice coaxing your eyes into meeting his.

“Come back, baby, come back to me,” he coos, grinning as he begins to slowly thrust in and out of you. “Come back so I can see that pretty face of yours.”

You do, eventually, drift back to him, with eyes glassy and head foggy.

“You good, love?” he asks. You nod. “Good, ‘cause I’m just getting started.”


	2. hungry for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> commission for a second installment by the same commissioner as before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter specific warnings: praise kink, dubcon, mentions of arranged marriage, taking of virginity, degradation, oral (f recieving), shame associated with religious upbringing, light orgasm denial

Somewhere – somewhere you know exists but also doubt is real – somewhere between right in front of you and a million miles away, you hear Thor calling out to you. You have to make a sizable effort to parse his words from the roaring of blood in your ears and haze of pleasure clouding your thoughts. You can hear him, barely, and can sense him - as if you were stuck in the bottom of an iced-over lake, if you were buried six feet under, if you were lost in a cave. Sometimes when you bathe you dunk yourself under the freezing water to quiet out all the noise, making all your siblings’ voices and animals’ screams sound garbled and, blessedly, muted.

Now, despite you being on dry land and nowhere near a body of water large enough to drown yourself in, it sounds the same – the beacon from a lighthouse, the beckoning home, the call to attention. It all sounds the same to you.

“ _Baby,”_ Thor coos above you. His voice is thick and savory like warmed molasses and pours into you just as smooth. Somehow you can feel it on you – flowing between your breasts and onto your stomach and pooling in your abdomen. It’s warm and creamy and gooey and makes you feel sunlit and beautiful and you could only stay in this feeling forever…“Come back, baby, come back to me. Come back so I can see that pretty face of yours.”

You don’t, _can’t,_ say anything because now his giant cock is filling you and all you want to do is cry from the mind-numbing satisfaction and your whole body is on fire and also over ice and is it humid? You wonder if it’s humid because your whole body is covered in sweat and you feel like you’re suffocating and you’re gasping for air because the air is too tense to breathe. It’s when he slaps you lightly, grabs your chin and _makes_ you look at him that you finally are able to think somewhat-rationally, logically, concisely…well, rationally, logically, and concisely enough to piece together whatever the man is saying along with the appropriate response.

“You good, love?” he asks. Somehow, you find enough energy and muscle control to nod. It’s faint and feeble as a last breath, but Thor sees, _comprehends_ it nonetheless. He kisses at your temple before speaking again, nosing at your hairline afterward. The gesture is comforting, reassuring; especially given what he says next. “Good, ‘cause I’m just getting started.”

It’s enough to make you gasp out, grab at him as if that would tether you to some vague definition of reality. You whine as he pulls back from you, growling at you to stay put, to remain in your highly vulnerable position. Maybe out of fear, maybe out of anticipation, maybe out of a mixture of both – you accede.

Thor falls to his knees on the hardwood floor, hitting the worn circles laid there by years of begging for forgiveness with a heavy _thud_. It distracts you, knocks you off guard enough that the man can grab you by the ankles and drag you closer to him without so much as a protest. Before you could register what was happening, Thor’s gotten you folded in half – legs bent and pressed to your chest with one forearm pressed into the notches of your knees to keep you there.

You’re confused, eyebrows furrowed as you attempt to find your bearings on a situation so foreign to you Thor might as well be speaking a different language. “What are y-“

You’re soon interrupted by your whole body melting as his flat tongue presses to the crest of your center. You relax easily, body becoming lax quick as a snap. “ _Oh!_ Oh, Oh my God, I’m-“

The art of language, of _coherent_ language, seems to wash away as you collapse fully onto the bed. If you had control over your muscles, if your brain would regain its rightful possession over your skin and bones maybe you’d pull at Thor’s hair, scratch his back, grip the sheets. Nothing of the sort is under your current ability, and you find yourself covering your face with flat, pliant hands. What you’re covering yourself _from_ is not important – maybe you’re terrified your eyes will open and you’ll have to face the hand-painted portrait of your Father. Maybe worse, you’d have to face the man between your legs, the almighty whose stubble scratches at the stretch marks between your legs and whose mouth drinks at the most vulnerable part of you.

One of his thick fingers presses into you with ease, obscene slick sounds filling your bedroom.

“Oh God,” you moan just above a whisper. You’re sure you look possessed now – eyes rolled to the back of your head and mouth banging open and body moving on its own accord. “God, don’t stop!”

You can feel Thor smile into the skin of your sopping cunt, his tongue tracing your lips before slipping another finger into and pressing _just so_ – each twitch of his fingers making nearly making you black out from how _overwhelming good it feels._

It’s not long before your skin is hot and tight and you’re about to burst, and you can feel your entire body wrapping around a tight coil laid atop a hot frying pan and you just…you just need…you just-

You nearly kill Thor when he pulls away, his fingers receding away from that perfect spot inside of you. It hurts, it _physically hurts_ and if you weren’t pissed as an ox you’d beg for him to continue.

With hair wild and cheeks red you sit up and grab Thor’s face with both your hands, your palms becoming wet with your slick.

 _“What the fuck is wrong with you!?”_ you hiss. You feel like a sopping wet cat who’s been dunked into a river by a hellbent child. With his shit-eating grin, the resemblance is uncanny. _God, you want to hit him to hard the SMACK! is heard by the next town over._

“Just gettin’ you ready, love,” he says – syrupy drawl both beautiful and antagonizing. Whatever way he means it, you press your thighs together to trap his hand there. Thor makes no move to remove it, just smiling and glowing and looking at you like you hung the stars.

“Ready for what,” you say through grit teeth. You search his eyes (and the rest of his face, for that matter) for answers, for explanation. All you see is fire in his eyes and his bottom lip stuck between his teeth and him looking you up and down like a man planning on where to shoot a deer stuck in a bear trap and before you know it, Thor is on top of you and his cock is stuffing you full and you’re digging your nails into his back.

When your sisters and cousins would whisper and giggle about seasonal farmhands who bathed naked far up the river, who blushed when you complimented them and leaned against the rickety fences when they spoke, you thought that would be the kind of guy you’d lose such an important part of you to. You thought you’d wake up one day to find yourself promised to some boy who was skinny and sun-burnt and did as she told him and worked in the field.

This feels the exact opposite of the man above you, the man _inside_ you. Large and sun-kissed and charismatic – he reminds you of a wild stallion, muscly and free and vicious and unstoppable and untamed and a _challenge._ You admire him the same way, are enchanted by him and his undomesticated, ruthless ways which are foreign and fierce to you and you’re simply _breathless._

Thor stretches your legs up to your chest and soon you’re wailing, trying to grab at the worn quilt you’ve had since you were a child for a lifeline, a reminder you have control over _some_ of your body, _something._

 _“Oh_ ,” you cry. You find yourself at a loss for words, the art of speech lost in favor of grunting and moaning and barely-intelligible “yes”s and “please”s and “don’t stop”s. Your legs are wrapped tightly around Thor’s waist, keeping him close; even if your legs were spread, though, it’s not as if Thor would want to pull away. It’s not as if the only thing tying him to you is the increasingly-weak hold on him, as if the only anchor is your nails leaving red, angry crescent-shaped indentations all over his back, shoulders, ass, sides. Just as your hands map each inch of his skin, his mouth does the same for yours – he pants, hot and open-mouthed, into equally-feverish uncharted territory. He tastes you, tastes the sweet-salty sweat that run over scars reminiscent of years of farm work.

Each time his teeth, tongue, lips so much as brush the gnarled skin the memories come flooding back, reminders of a life now considered “ _past_.” The scenes from a life you no long recognize coat the pleasure, the present; they play behind your eyes as you feel yourself falling thousands of feet below.

_His chin nudges the long one above your breasts you’ve had since you were a child and you were proving to your father you could be an archer – turns out the arrow was much sharper than you could have imagined._

_He brushes your hair to the side and exposes a small, curled thing behind your ear – earned from a fight with a hawk that had broken its wing. Your father shot it, cooked it, and you knew that was the poor animal’s fate. Nonetheless, you stepped too close and scared the thing to pieces._

_He bites at the one on your shoulder – the one you got when you were nicked by a sharpened stick on a trail ride. You were young and dumb as the stick was long and pointed. Ma says the only thing that kept you alive for the duration of the ride back was pure spite and adrenaline, a similar concoction to what flows through your veins now._

If you were a different woman, a woman with a strong will and even stronger arms, you’d push him away and repent for a chance at the old life you had planned for yourself. You’d throw him out of your house and fall to your knees and pray until your family found you there – lips and pads of your knees bleeding. You’d force him back onto the horse he rode in on and fall into hysterics until he left you by your lonesome to deal with _this_ (whatever _this_ may be) by yourself. You’d push him off and remind him you’re not what he wants – that you’re more than a cheap lay. (Of course, you’d let him in eventually – if he pushed and prodded at you hard enough. You’d let him mount you like he is now…just maybe after a ring and a dress and him _knowing_ that you’re going to be with him until the end of time.)

Unfortunately, you are not that woman. You are weak, lost to the pleasure of him slamming in and out of you so hard you’re sure he’s leaving bruises on your inner thighs, ones that will last for days; lost to the feeling of his rough, wet thumb pressing at the crest of your center and making you wail. You’re absolutely _drowning_ in it, and you have no intention of fighting to find land.

“Jesus _fuck,_ ” he hisses as you clench around him (an act you will play coy about when he asks you later, but do not comment on now). “This pussy is mine until the end of days, you get that? Do you understand me? I’m never giving you up.”

You groan out, unable to form something silly as speech. Like before, he grabs your face with the unoccupied big, calloused hand and forces your hooded eyes to meet his dilated pupils. Unlike before, tears stain your face. You’ve wept this hard before – when your favorite heifer died, when you realized your sister were so much prettier than you, when you got pecked in the side by a temperamental, murderous chicken. You’ve never, though, _ever_ screeched and caterwauled and _literally wept_ from pleasure.

(Your lips feel dryer by the second. You have a sneaking suspicious as to why.)

“Tell me whose pussy this is,” Thor snarls. His words are punctuated with thrusts, each one deeper and harder than the last. _Surely you won’t walk away from this unharmed. No human was built to withstand such forces, to withstand this **man**. You feel like a poorly-built prairie house during tornado season - threatening to be reduced to bits any second. _“Tell me who owns this beautiful pussy of yours.”

“ _Ah!_ ” you scream so loud you’re sure the angels can hear you. “Oh, God Thor, this pussy is yours.”

You can feel his wicked, satisfied smile against your shoulder, his teeth scraping at the skin there. “Say it again,” he tells you, so quiet you barely hear. Like some test or a prayer or a demand. “I want to hear it again.”

_(In truth, he wants to hear you say it forever – but once more, for now, will do.)_

The spool of thick thread weaves itself tighter and tights inside of you, and when you go to grab at the bedsheets once more you can hear the familiar sound of cotton sheets, ripping. “ _My pussy is yours, Thor!”_

It’s then that the reel collapses in on itself – like the universe in the beginning. Is there a set of planets springing to life inside of you? Is the white-hot you see as you gasp for air a second set of heavens being born? You understand the Book so much better now, now understand why He had to rest; you feel as if you could sleep for a million years when you finally spiral down to Earth.

Thor, obviously, does not feel the same way. He does not pull from you, does not leave you lying motionless, heaving, desperate for cool air in your lungs and on your skin. Rather, he _laughs_ – deep and pitted in his chest.

_The bastard._

“You’re gorgeous,” he says between kisses laid upon your jaw. They’re hot, heavy, hard – sometimes you can feel his teeth scrape there. You wonder if he means to mark you so – determined to make an example of you and have you choose the dangerous fate of either parading around or shutting yourself in; or does he does this with no thought at all, barges into isolated women’s homes and shows them the greatest gratification known to man or God. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

You bear your teeth when he pulls back and meets your eyes again. It takes all your minimal willpower not to moan again, given that he hasn’t stopped fucking in and out of you. “Has anyone ever told you they wanted to punch you in the fucking face?”

He laughs again, same as before. “You’ve got a dirty mouth for such a clean woman,” he smirks as he pulls from you and flips you over with ease (your heart flutters – literally _flutters_ , when your chest hits the sheets), knees bracketing you in. “Or, can I call you that no longer?”

Before you can snap back with a retort, he’s got you pulled to your knees by your hair – the follicles bunched in his large fist. You gasp loudly – the searing, sharp pain traveling up the backs of your legs, your spine, your scalp. It hurts, but it also feels so _good_.

Thor ignores you.

You remain there, tucked into Thor as he ravages you. One arm keeps you upright and tight against his muscular chest, slung across your stomach and tucked into your side so he can feel each bated breath – the other makes quick, small circles over the most sensitive part of you.

 _“Scream for me,”_ he whispers into your ear. “Let the whole world hear how good I make you feel.”

You follow his bellowed command, choked whimpers now shouts and cries and shrieks. In any other moment in any other time you’d be embarrassed, like before when you’d cover your mouth to stifle the sounds so no one could hear. Now, though, with no shawl or nighttime or cloak or hand to conceal you from the man you can’t look in the eyes. 

The hand around your stomach moves to the wall in front of you for balance, and you can feel his hot breath as his jaw hangs open.

You’re too far gone, now, to notice him grabbing at your hair again and pressing your cheek into the sheets. You scream each him his hips meet yours, his moans nearly as loud as yours.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “God, you’re so wet. Oh _shit!”_

He pulls out, blessedly, finishing himself with his hand while the other presses into your lower back. It keeps you there, floating in and out of consciousness but staying near-lifeless on the bed. The shirt he was wearing before – you recognize it from the column of buttons – cleans you off, the thick cotton soothing against your skin.

It’s not long before Thor joins you on the bed, collapsing from exhaustion just as you have. It’s hours before you wake up again, the pitch blackness outside meaning there’s nothing to distract yourself from the reality of the state of your life.

If your world hadn’t been shattered before, you are currently watching it go down in flames. You’ve never seen a barn being burned to the ground, but if you were stuck inside, it’d probably feel like this – you’d probably also be clutching the quilt that’s been haphazardly thrown over you but not Thor, grasping at the sun-bleached fabric as it will save you from destruction.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the ceiling and no one in particular. You still avoid looking at that damned portrait, keeping its aged frame in your periphery. You treat the man currently invading your precious personal space the same way.

Thor laughs next to you, deep in his chest. _If you didn’t want to hit him then…_ “Should I be offended?”

You sigh, still avoiding his gaze. You can feel it burning into you like the sun on a bare back in the middle of July – you fear, if he looks at you too long, that you’ll be burned with his mark for the rest of time. You pull the quilt closer to you, hugging it to your body. “Not everything is about you.”

“I’d agree. Maybe not _everything_ , but this,” Thor taps a few times between your eyebrows where your forehead has wrinkled. “Definitely is.”

He’s confident, so _frustratingly_ confident and radiant and if your life wasn’t falling apart you would fuck him again – without hesitation. If you weren’t reconstructing a path you had mapped the day you understood what “future” meant for you, you’d force him down on the bed and do what you thought your wedding night would look like. It’s overwhelming, to say the least, to realize that you have been dethroned of the future you’d thought, you’d _assumed_ you’d have.

You’re not a geographer, a cartographer, a topographer; you’re just a woman. A very _horny_ woman, who is currently undergoing a crisis.

Thor moves closer to you, wrapped one of his massive arms around your bare waist and shifts so that his massive body weighs you onto the bed and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Love, what are you so worried about? Someone like you shouldn’t have worries like that running through the pretty little head of yours.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. _Where do you even **begin** with him? _“What am I worried about? I don’t know, probably the fact that I have to marry you now,” you sigh, eyes screwed shut in hopes you’ll open to find yourself in another bed, in another home, in another life. “That’s pretty fucking terrifying.”

Thor laughs breathily – unfazed. “One, you’re very rude. Has anyone ever told you that? It’s no wonder your father treats you in such a way. It’s a mystery no one _else_ treats you that way. Maybe I should treat you a lesson, huh? Should I treat you to be nicer to the people who treat you nice as I?” he trails off for a minute or two, eyeing you up and down. When you make no move towards him, he continues. “Two, why do you have to marry me?”

You ignore his insolence, attempting to stick to the matter at hand. You fear if you veer off topic for even a moment, he’ll use that opening to pin back onto the bed and then this will be delayed even worse than it currently is and then this conversation will have to happen with even _more_ of a threat of your family coming home before you can handle this yourself and…What were you talking about again? Right. Roping this man into marriage. No big deal. “You just took my purity, of course I have to marry you.”

It’s Thor’s turn to scoff. “That’s not how the world works, baby.”

“It’s how _my_ world works, _baby_ ,” You bite back. If you were a snake, you’re sure the last word would’ve been coupled with the spraying of poison all over your companion’s skin. Knowing Thor, though, he’d walk away healthier than ever despite two precise puncture wounds.

There’s a long pause before he speaks again, the smile that plays on his lips coloring his words as well. “Oh, really? Why can’t I just walk out of here and pretend none of this ever happened? Why can’t I move onto the next woman, and the next woman, and the next woman. You think I can’t just find a thousand other yous to fill my bed, huh? Why do you think you’re so special?”

You’re sitting up now, covering yourself as Thor lays there bare. He reminds you of a barn cat in the sun, eyes closed and muscles relaxed and tail flicking lazily; if you touched him, you bet his skin would be warmed – if you scratched behind his ears or under his chin, you bet he’d purr. Unlike your barn cat, though, you refuse to leave him be as he enjoys his leisure. “Why do you think I’d just let you leave? Why do you think you can find another woman, let alone a _thousand_ women even _close_ to me? Sure, leave if you want to, but don’t think you won’t be crawling back to me the second you try and find me in someone who ain’t me. Nuh-uh, you’ll find yourself here, in the dirt, at my feet.”

There’s a long, thick silence that settles over the both of you as Thor sits up, too. His face is playful, but still look in your eyes for any ounce of insincerity. He finds none. “You’re a little spitfire, you know that? Feral little thing, you are.”

You leave the bed, wrapping yourself in a robe you find rumbled under the bed. You don’t know if it’s to protect yourself from the immodesty of walking around naked as the day you were born, or if you’re hoping covering up to prove to Thor you’re not just some hussy. _As if whatever in Hell just went down doesn’t disprove whatever notions of modesty you’re hoping to project._ Either way, it busies your hands and keeps your eyes from him. “Of course.” You don’t speak again until you’re at the doorway, back facing him with head turned to the side _just_ so. _Who’s the cat now? “_ Do you?”

You walk away after that, leaving to find food or water or maybe a gun. Thor neither knows nor cares. Either way, he allows his body to fall back onto the bed with a _thud_ and listens to your footsteps padding on the floor. Once you’re out of earshot, he sighs deep and happy. “I sure do, babygirl. I sure do.”


End file.
